A single image that speaks volumes.
Sporting a miniskirt and wearing her hair in long layers, the young woman is poised to cut her birthday cake. A faint smile breaks out on her profile.
The scene could be from current times or anywhere in the modern world. The outfit, hairstyle, and décor all suggest a Westernised lifestyle. Few might guess it took place in Iran.
The sepia-toned image has been circulating on the Internet in recent months, with a simple heading, “Woman cuts her birthday cake in Tehran, 1973.” Yet the seeming simplicity belies a complex historical context. Under the reign of the Shah, when the photo was taken, women had gained rights and freedom; including the option to dress however they pleased, whether in Western fashion or more traditional garb.
The Islamic Revolution would sweep the nation only six years later, curtailing many newfound freedoms. Policing women’s bodies became the norm, as they could no longer appear in public without a headscarf.
With her uncovered head and fashionable attire, the woman in the photo symbolises a glimmer of hope, a moment in time with infinite possibilities ahead. Looking back at what came afterward, one cannot help but grieve a loss and wonder what could have been.
An Italian page on Facebook was among the platforms where I came upon the photo. Having some knowledge of Italian, I could read and understand the users’ comments. Some felt like I did, expressing admiration for Iranian women and their beauty, hoping for a democratic change in Iran and a governing body befitting the Iranian people’s aspirations.
Yet many others were judging the situation in irrelevant ways, making derisive statements about the veil or perceiving Iranian women of today as without agency or a future. A recurring sentiment was that the same fate could befall Italy if citizens failed to give heed.
Noticing that all the statements in the thread were from Italians and feeling the need to rectify misconceptions, I posted my own comment. Writing in Italian, I introduced myself as an Iranian woman and pointed out that true freedom is actively choosing to wear or not to wear a veil. Acknowledging that the woman in the photo is as attractive as they come, I explained that hijab in various fashions is also part of Middle Eastern culture and that all women should be celebrated. My goal was to diffuse the one-sided mentality some users possessed.
Several hours later, I noticed a response from an Italian guy: “What a useless justification, stemming from total submission. I’m speechless.”
I pointed out that if he equated freedom of choice with “total submission,” wasn’t he the one with the useless justification? He then attempted to convince me I was living in a dream world if I thought I even had one percent of the freedom I had mentioned.
I don’t believe it necessary to go into any more details of the discussion to illustrate his level of bigotry. Yet even while social media tends to enhance divisions and discord, creating echo chambers that feed off confirmation biases, that particular viewpoint on women who veil is far from isolated. Misconceptions surrounding the hijab prevail, with women who choose to wear it becoming targets of discrimination even in 2024.
The pro-Palestine protests that took place on college campuses across the US provide a case in point. At Arizona State University, police forcibly removed hijabs following arrests at demonstrations and an academic was seen confronting a woman in a headscarf, telling her to “go back to jihad.” Similar incidents occurred at Ohio State and Columbia campuses and during demonstrations in Ottawa, Canada.
For me, the most troubling report came from my alma mater, the University at Buffalo. On May 1st, as police were arresting protestors on campus, a female student had her hijab ripped off by an officer. I remember viewing the footage, taken by students from an upper floor, on an Instagram story which has since been deleted. The girl was practically pinned to the ground as her head covering was being undone. And at a candlelight vigil for Palestine the following week, undercover cops in hijabs appeared on campus.
It was unbelievable how this was all happening at the same place that had significantly contributed to my personal and academic formation and was acclaimed for diversity and inclusion.
Internationally acclaimed for its stance on unity in diversity is the Olympic Games. Yet France, as the tournament host, imposed a headscarf ban on its team, exposing discriminatory double standards toward French Muslim women.
Contemplating the photo of the woman celebrating her birthday, I realise that what she stands for, more than anything else, is freedom of choice. Iranian women have been denied this freedom for over four decades.
It explains why, upon Mahsa Amini’s death at the hands of Iran’s morality police for alleged “improper hijab,” women took to the streets in massive numbers across the nation. Risking their lives and livelihoods, they appeared with their heads uncovered in the heavy presence of security guards, setting fire to their headscarves and cutting their hair in acts of civil disobedience. The movement’s rallying cry, “Woman Life Freedom,” symbolised the Iranian women’s fight against patriarchal oppression and sparked months of solidarity protests worldwide.
Evidence of the feminist movement was palpable during my stay in Iran last year. Women were openly defying the dress code by refusing to wear headscarves – on the street, in stores, in cafes, on public transportation, in the mountains, by the sea, while driving. Almost as many women were going about their daily business with their hair uncovered as those donning the veil. Everyone looked okay with the arrangement and respectful of one another’s choices.
One day at a metro station in Tehran, I caught sight of four women on the platform across mine; two veiled and two unveiled, in close vicinity to one another. The scene struck me as a fitting portrayal of freedom of choice.
Another highlight of that stay came in the shape of a golden mural. Set in the courtyard of a cultural centre in the southwestern city of Ahvaz, it captures a moment in history where one woman’s defying the dress code determined her nation’s fate.
The mural depicts scenes from 1766 during the reign of the Bani Ka’ab Arabs in Ahvaz. The British fleet launched a surprise invasion while the locals were going about their daily business, and as no means of mass communication existed back then, there was no way for them to know what was happening. And so, the British kept attacking with cannon balls and modern artillery in what became known as the Abu Touq War.
As high commander of the Bani Ka’ab, Sheikh Salman Ka’abi summoned the superiors in his clan and gathered them all in the Mazif. In this hall, elders in Arab culture would convene to discuss crucial matters and reach verdicts.
Aliya, Sheikh Salman’s daughter, saw the men entering the Mazif from afar. As it was uncustomary for women to participate in meetings in the Mazif, and Aliya had also given birth ten days earlier, she sent her maid to listen in on the conversation behind closed doors and report back to her.
The superiors reported to the Sheikh that the city was falling. Lives were being lost, they were ill-equipped to counter the invasion, and defeat seemed inevitable. There was no choice but to surrender to the British.
Upon hearing the news from her maid, Aliya decided to take matters into her own hands. She ran to the Mazif, as off-limits as it was, and barged in on the gathering, crossing the first red line. The second was removing her niqab in the presence of men, equally unheard of for an Arab woman. Third, she tore down the tulle fabric Arab women wore over their garments. This fabric, called Hashemi, was considered one of the most significant symbols of modesty in Arab culture. And in a final act of defiance, she yanked off her sheleh or head covering.
As inseparable as these layers of clothing were to her identity, Aliya would tear them off one by one with each step she took in the Mazif. Putting her dignity on the line, she personified the gravity of the situation by exposing herself.
Several male relatives in the group rushed to her side. As they frantically picked up her garments and tried to cover her back up, she objected, making it clear that the British would start invading their homes within no time; in particular, dishonouring their wives, daughters, and sisters. She then presented them with a dilemma: “What would you prefer, to behold my uncovered body or have the British threaten your women?!”
That one declaration was enough to spring them into action. Without further ado, they refused to surrender and departed the Mazif. With each superior summoning their clansmen, they united to fight the British with all their sophisticated equipment and defeated them practically empty-handed.
Aliya even became the inspiration behind the war’s name. “Touq,” meaning collar, alludes to the British cavalier who spearheaded the invasion and wore a certain collar signifying his rank and file within the army. The collar was presented to Aliya as a token of victory.
Today, the best token of victory is for women to have the freedom to express themselves and live out the fullness of their identities with no fear of repercussion. Whether in the conservative Middle East or the liberal West, policing women’s bodies needs to come to an end.
Yet as marginalised as the dominant cultures might make them, margins still carry significance and can facilitate change. Now is the time to revive their realities, calling them out of the margins of time and space and into the spotlight of recognition in an evolving global society.